


The Great Defender

by EmeraldEyes8917



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Bullying, Comfort, Defending victims, Gen, Government, Harassment, Women Being Awesome, Women In Power, internal affairs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28108494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldEyes8917/pseuds/EmeraldEyes8917
Summary: When Anthea bears witness to a senior official openly bullying a younger female civil servant in full view of fellow workers, her protective instincts and hackles rise, as she makes it her goal to save this woman from her bully, while channelling Mycroft Holmes' infamous 'Iceman' personality.
Relationships: Anthea & Mycroft Holmes
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	The Great Defender

It was the middle of the week and the entire department was shifted into its highest gear, a number of matters having slowly crescendoed to an unavoidable peak.  
  
Several officials, senior and middle, were feeling the palpable stress and were able to manage it privately in their own rooms or in their homes, indulging in any number of vices.  
  
For her, it was breathing, meditation, cups of tea, and bowing like a beginner on her cello to hear the low rumbled frequency of the instrument in her ears to ground her.  
  
In all her years of working in the government, she had never raised her voice in the corridors or in the main foyer in front of witnesses. Granted, she had engaged in shouting matches in chambers in parliament, in the depths of MI5, and even out in the field when pressure was mounting.  
  
It was a cardinal rule that a person, no matter their position or role, would never be dressed down where onlookers could easily observe. It was, quite frankly, humiliating and a bullying tactic, in her own opinion.  
  
Even with administrative fires and public uproar and the house literally about to fall on their heads, nothing ever excused a public reprimand, not even for someone who had committed cardinal sins.  
  
However, her cardinal rule was about to be broken, but not by her.  
  
On her way back to her office after stopping at the canteen to pick up a green smoothie, opting for a healthier option rather than black coffee on this particular afternoon, planning to go for a run that evening, she takes a different route back to her office, circling around the west side of the building which was the domain of Harold Clarkson, a notorious official in charge of finance and liaison to the treasury department.  
  
She had dealt with him before during high-level meetings with other department heads and their relationship was quite cordial, but she found him to be quite unpleasant, an unfortunate relic of times when senior department heads were never argued with and his word was almost gospel.  
  
If she ran into him, she would give him a smile, a courteous nod and be on her way, while wishing that he would get an ulcer and give them a decent respite from his attitude.  
  
As she turns a corner into the bullpen area with many cubicles set up, a loud voice reaches her ears which makes her halt mid-stride and shift onto her back foot into immediate defensive mode.  
  
Male. Shouting volume. Raspy timbre. Impatient tone.  
  
Clarkson.  
  
Peeking around the corner, her pulse thundering in her ears, she sees the man himself, a staunch, portly man who always wore navy and grey suits with a slightly rotund stomach and thinning grey hair, his face red as he stands before a younger woman with long fair hair, a red blouse, and black skirt, who is holding a folder quite tightly in her hands, blinking rapidly behind her glasses.  
  
Despite the woman being a few inches taller, she appears to shrink at the man's tirade as he points a finger at her and bellows almost incoherently.  
  
Even from her position almost out of sight, she can see the woman is absolutely petrified, shoulders hunched, breathing rapid and looking ready to burst into tears, and her protective side rears its head like a lioness, but she holds her place for the moment, for any interference could be tactically unwise.  
  
Listening intently, she hears Clarkson admonish the woman, gathering as best she can over the garbled words that the woman had placed documents on his desk earlier that morning but had not emailed him to let him know that she had done that when he had been in a meeting and had begun to draft a document that was required for a briefing with the treasury secretary later in the week on her own initiative.  
  
When the woman tries to explain that she was only drafting it and would not have issued it for review without his signing off, he bellows, "You're not paid to go on flights of fancy. I didn't instruct you and it was shoddy, at best. You're being impertinent and slipping behind your peers and you are not even ready to lead an egg and spoon race, so you'd better pull your socks up, young lady. Think about why you were hired for this position and don't talk back to your betters. Now I want the originals of those documents in the next twenty minutes and those emails drafted before you clock out and no more daydreaming. Do I make myself clear?"  
  
All the woman could answer in a tiny voice was, "Yes, sir."  
  
Mr Clarkson turns on his heel and stalks off to the far end of the bullpen, disappearing into a room which was presumably his office and shuts the door with a loud slam.  
  
The woman clutches the folder to her chest and bows her head, visibly shaking, standing all by herself, looking around for any sign of her colleagues.  
  
No one had come to her aid. No one had tried to calm the situation down. No one even came to her now to comfort her.  
  
Anthea's vision instantly swims with tears, but before they can fall, she breathes in once, pulls herself up to her full height, spine straight and head lifted, she comes around the corner and walks carefully up to the young woman, who starts immediately as she approaches, trying to wipe her eyes but ends up dropping the manila folder, the pages scattering in a wide arc across the floor.  
  
"Oh, ma'am, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just..."  
  
Anthea raises a hand, shaking her head with a soft smile, "It's alright, it's alright. What's your name?"  
  
"Lucinda... Lucinda Gray, ma'am."  
  
Anthea smiles more, "A lovely name, I don't believe we've met. I am Anthea, I work on the other side of the building with the surveillance department. Would you mind taking a breath for me?"  
  
Lucinda does so despite it being quite difficult for her, chest heaving with panic, still very shaken.  
  
Anthea's voice is just above a whisper, and her expression is placid, kind and open, "Now, I don't want to embarrass you by talking out loud with people listening, but I would like you to come with me to my office for a chat, okay?"  
  
The woman flinches, looking over her shoulder to Mr Clarkson's office and Anthea soothes her straight away, "You're not in any trouble. I just want to have a talk for a few minutes and get you a glass of water."  
  
She kneels down to pick up the folder, gathering the fallen pages, and hands it back to Lucinda, "Why don't you put that on your desk, and then you can follow me."  
  
Lucinda does so, and after she quickly tidies her desk, the two women leave the bullpen in silence.  
  
Anthea gives a stare to the shut door as if wanting to burn through the wooden panels, and continues on her way, giving second looks to anyone who may have been witness, putting a finger to her lips.  
  
Only two other women had been present at the far end of the bullpen, hiding out of sight and they give her tremulous smiles and wave towards Lucinda.  
  
Anthea wonders why no one stepped forward to intervene or offer any support afterward. There appeared to be a genuine culture of fear in this office.  
  
As soon as they reach the corridor where her office is at the very end, she puts an arm around Lucinda's shoulders as she begins to sob now that they were out of sight and earshot of anyone in that outer office.  
  
Once inside her office, she fetches a glass of water, brings her to sit on her sofa, and brings the chair from the front of her desk to sit beside her, not wanting to be an imposing authority figure.  
  
"Now, there's no need to be nervous. I will just tell you that I witnessed the tail-end of your conversation with Mr Clarkson just now. It sounded like he was in a very bad temper and I want to hear your side of the story before I go to him."  
  
Lucinda nods, unable to stop the tears, "I made a mistake, ma'am, but I didn't mean to. I didn't know I was supposed to wait before drafting things. It was the only thing missing on the requirements list for the meeting and I just wanted to get it started to save time, but it was all wrong... I keep going on flights of fancy and thinking too much. I don't know how to fix it. He... he keeps saying that I don't have experience and he can tell that I haven't dealt with people directly before. He says I'm too kind and facilitating and that it's a weakness, but he bows to other stakeholders and MPs, saying we have to keep them sweet or else we will lose money. I'm trying to do things right, but he keeps shouting at me and my mind goes blank and he tells me I have a faulty memory and that I'm not interested in the work..."  
  
Unable to continue, Lucinda covers her mouth, her story rambling faster and faster until she cannot speak but for the sobbing.  
  
Anthea sits quite still, her blood beginning to boil. She had heard minor complaint stories emanating from Clarkson's department, but no one had ventured forward to lodge an official statement or an internal complaint. Anyone who voiced such feelings was either transferred, chose to leave the service, or suffered in silence.  
  
It was a sorry state of affairs when a department head ran roughshod over those he was in charge of.  
  
She had her own run-ins with Clarkson's kind during her own training and initial years of service and had been in Lucinda's position several times, albeit to a lesser degree. She had been lucky that the men she had worked with eventually saw the error of their ways or attempted to curb their behaviour, and as soon as she was brought into Mycroft Holmes' employ, the atmosphere working with him was always focused, methodical, and free from outbursts of temper.  
  
Mr Holmes had his brief moments of frustration but he never once made her cry or directed those frustrations directly at her.  
  
Retrieving a box of tissues from her desk drawer, she hands them to Lucinda, who dries her eyes and blows her nose, "I'm so sorry, ma'am."  
  
"You've nothing to be sorry for. You're obviously a bright, dedicated woman with a good future ahead of her. Your kindness will serve you in time."  
  
"But I'm so weak... civil servants don't cry."  
  
Letting out a chuckle, Anthea gently opines, "Oh, but they do. They are human as you are, believe it or not. But that is neither here not there, so here's what I want to tell you right now: I'm not going to tell you to toughen up or to be stronger. That will come with experience and your resilience will stand to you. But that's not what I am concerned with right now. Your wellbeing is my priority right now, and we have a problem to fix."  
  
Clasping her hands, she sits forward, meeting Lucinda's eyes levelly, "What just happened there was unacceptable. It was inappropriate, and it was an abysmal showing for such a senior official. It was something a bully would do, not someone in charge of a team of talented young people. Even if he had to take you to one side or to his office to bring attention to an error you made since you are learning, there is no excusing that rude, offensive tone that he used, and in front of your peers on top of that. It was wrong, and it was very poor behaviour."  
  
Lucinda wipes her nose again, continuing her miserable tale in earnest, "He snaps at me and makes me do things over when he's not happy, tears up emails that I send and memos that I've typed up on the front of me, and he keeps saying that I just don't have an interest, but I promise I do, ma'am. I love this job and I want to work here, but he makes me nervous and I lock up in a panic."  
  
Anthea listens with a grave expression, "You said your mind goes blank? Do you want to give me an example?"  
  
Lucinda's eyes dart about in thought, her face pale as she recalls the memories, "Sometimes I cannot remember a file reference number or I cannot recall a memo that I would have filed a week before. I would know if he let me check the file but he puts me on the spot and I can't think on my feet with him. He doesn't like me explaining things, and he only wants 'Yes' or 'No' answers, and anything I do independently is termed as a flight of fancy. I'm just really nervous, and this morning, I actually froze and pleaded with him to give me a moment, then he said I was in big trouble if I couldn't put a call through to another department..."  
  
Lucinda dissolves into crying again as Anthea takes this all in, her blood running cold and hot in waves, but remaining outwardly calm for the trainee's sake.  
  
"Take a deep breath, nice and easy..."  
  
As she considers all of this, she softly says, "Have you raised this with human resources?"  
  
Lucinda shakes her head, "I thought I could weather it, but it's been four months and things haven't improved. No one else seems to have trouble with him, so I don't know what it is about me that he just doesn't like."  
  
Anthea moves from her chair to sit beside her on the sofa, knowing that she had to be that protective maternal figure to this woman who badly needed a proper mentor, "Listen to me now and believe me when I say that you are not to blame here. He has many issues, it seems, and he is taking out his frustrations on an easy target who happens to be in his employ and his responsibility. Patently, he feels threatened by a kind young woman who is dedicated and enthusiastic who may very well take his place one day, so this lashing out is a symptom of inadequacy."  
  
Lucinda shrugs weakly, "I just want to be able to come to work and not feel sick with fear, ma'am. I really want to do well here."  
  
Anthea's voice is soft yet firm, steel in a velvet glove, "I'm going to help you, Lucinda. You can trust me that all that you've said won't leave this room. Only if you ever decide to go through official channels and lodge a formal complaint, I will be a witness to that behaviour this afternoon and swear a statement of what you have told me. But let's not worry about that now..."  
  
Putting a hand on her shoulder, "I'm going to place you on a temporary transfer to my department. I have a few ongoing matters of great importance that require diligence and initiative, and it'll give you a great experience of our internal research resources. I am going to ask one of my team from surveillance to walk you through some procedures to give you an idea of what my department does each day. Would you like that?"  
  
For the first time since they had begun speaking, Lucinda's eyes brighten and her entire body seems to unwind, "Yes, ma'am. I'd really like that and I will do my very best for you. Thank you."  
  
"You're very welcome. Now, I'm going to bring you to the research section, introduce you to William and Samantha who are the head co-ordinators, and do not give another thought to Mr Clarkson."  
  
Suddenly, the old fear returns, "But, the work, I can't just..."  
  
Anthea swiftly cuts across her, but not unkindly, "I will take care of him. I will even handle that task myself so he will leave you be. I am not permitting you to work alongside him anymore. You will report to me for the time being and we will plan out an official transition for you with human resources. You can have a conversation to see what you would like to do and we can take it from there. Alright?"  
  
Lucinda's eyes well up again, "I'm sorry to be so emotional, ma'am. I just haven't had much kindness recently."  
  
Anthea lightly puts her arm around Lucinda and gives her a light squeeze and she leans into her, breathing out shakily and trembling all over.  
  
"No need to be sorry. You're safe now."  
  
  
**One hour later...**  
  
After giving Lucinda time to wash her face, take a much-needed break and find a hot drink of tea, she brings her down to her surveillance research team who are writing on a large whiteboard at the top of the room, discussing backgrounds and affiliates of a number of civilians whose photographs are tacked up with some biographical details noted beneath them.  
  
Things appeared to be well organized and progressing smoothly, and the entire team greets them with a measure of politeness and enthusiasm.  
  
Introducing them to Lucinda, she briefly checks in and answers any questions they had for her, reminding them to keep their update memos succinct and clear, to follow the background information logically, and to collaborate with each other.  
  
As she turns to leave, she hears Lucinda's voice become brighter as the other welcome her into the fold, and she smiles secretly in the dim light of the outer hall.  
  
As soon as she ascends the stairs, there is a pregnant pause as she stops in front of a window looking out towards Westminster Abbey, the bustling street below, and the city of London she had sworn to protect.  
  
Staring straight ahead, her vision narrowing into a straight tunnel, slowly craning her neck to the right and to the left, biting her tongue, pushing her hair back and her shoulders coming into a straight line, she begins to stride in pure determined fashion back in the direction she had come from earlier towards the inner office of Harold Clarkson's department.  
  
To even the most casual observer, she was on the warpath and would not be made to diverge from her current course.

She does not encounter anyone on the way, for she may very well have barrelled past them without a word, so surefire is her stride.  
  
She stops outside his office door, but before she even knocks, she says in a pleasant voice, carrying as far as the nearest set of cubicles, "Mr Clarkson is inside?"  
  
A voice pipes up from behind a wall, "Yes, ma'am."  
  
"Occupied?"  
  
"Not that I know of, ma'am."  
  
She turns her head slowly towards the mysterious messenger, "Thank you very much. Now if you hear any raised voices, no need to worry. All is perfectly well and no need to call anyone. Understood?"  
  
With that final word, she raps loudly on the door several times with her knuckles, saying in a sweetly saccharine voice, "Harold, it's Miss Somers, may I come in?"  
  
She does not even wait for confirmation that she could enter, turning the ornate handle of the burnished door and stepping inside, not even paying mind to Clarkson gaping at her from behind his desk.  
  
"What the devil do you think you are doing?"  
  
She ignores the question and stops short in front of his desk, folding her arms, "And a very good afternoon to you as well, Harold. How's life? How's gout treating you? How's the yacht and the bourbon and all the pleasures of life?"  
  
The older man appears quite flummoxed, "You're being quite flippant right now, young lady..."  
  
In a split second, her tone hardens into pure ice, "Don't you 'young lady' me, you pompous, overstuffed, arrogant blowhard."  
  
He gets to his feet, eyes bulging and face darkening to a puce shade, "What did you just say?"  
  
Spurred on by contained rage, she continues without any compunction, "You heard me. That seems to be the only kind of tone you listen to, the only message you relate to and can even comprehend through that mushy mass between your ears that doesn't even pass for a brain."  
  
Instantly, he loses his temper, which was a very poor move, his voice rising in volume so much that she flinches more at the intensity ringing in her ears rather than out of fright, "You'd better turn and march straight back where you came from, you snide little tart or else you'll be brought up for insubordination."  
  
Though her legs are shaking slightly, a common side effect of adrenaline beginning to course through her system, her stance is unwavering and her voice steady, "I'm not going anywhere and I am not taking a single order from you, you disgusting creature. I saw what you did to that girl earlier. I bore witness to your appalling behaviour and complete lack of professionalism. It was the most arrogant, belligerent, bullying display I've ever had the misfortune to witness and I am here to put an end to it."  
  
He lets out a sharp bark of a laugh, "Oh, dear me, the bleeding heart has arrived. I was giving that girl instructions and making sure she knows her place."  
  
Channelling the essence of Mycroft Holmes, she says in the coldest voice possible, "What you were doing was being a disgrace to the service and causing psychological harm to an employee when she has done nothing but work hard and try to meet your pathetic whims. She works here just like anyone else and is entitled to respect."  
  
A scoff and Clarkson launches into yet another tirade, "Who the bloody hell do you think you are? Mycroft Holmes' girl Friday? A little upstart in a tight skirt? I could destroy your entire career with one phone call, so shut that mouth right now."

The comments are patently disgusting, recalling old snide whispers from when she was first employed by Mycroft, but she stands firm, not breaking eye contact, before she gives a shake of her head, tutting quietly, "You have no power here, Harold. You are not the king of this department and I am not some serf who is going to bow at your feet. Enough is enough. Lucinda is no longer your concern. She is in my department and I am going to ensure that she gets the support she needs and is treated with the decency she deserves."  
  
If it were possible for a man's head to almost exploding, it would certainly occur to Harold Mortimer Clarkson, "You... you stole my assistant? You... you little bitch..."  
  
Just as he snarls that curse word, she cuts across him quickly, "Be grateful that I don't transfer all of your staff and leave you to flounder on your own. But I'm being generous today, so here is how this is going to play out: you do not contact Lucinda Gray ever again. You don't go near her. You do not email, call or send a messenger pigeon demanding her to come to your office any day you feel like taking out your small-minded frustrations on her or want to tell her that initiative is a bad thing. I will ensure your communication is monitored and if I even hear a whisper of you demeaning or distressing that girl or if someone from your section goes to HR with another complaint, so help me God, you will be served with sanctions up to your eyes for all the staff transgressions you've inflcited that will haunt you until your retirement. Is that clear?"  
  
In a petulant voice, he makes a lackluster comeback, "You can't do that."  
  
"Oh, I can. Or else we can just settle this with a sit-down meeting with Lady Smallwood and Mr Holmes' masters. How displeased would they be to find out that a senior official of such ranking demeaned a young junior staffer in full view, hm?"  
  
Clarkson gulps and sits back heavily in the chair, which wheels back a few feet under his weight, staring at her with an equal measure of fury and nervousness.  
  
"Do you understand, Harold, or shall I put it in big writing for you?"  
  
Through gritted teeth, he says, utterly defeated, "I... understand."  
  
Anthea's smile is syrupy sweet, "Excellent. I will do you the extreme favour of finding those documents you were haranguing Lucinda about. I am quite familiar with the records archive myself, so how about you write down the record number right now, I'll trot downstairs and leave them by the door tied with a bow for you?"  
  
In that same tight voice, "Fine, alright."  
  
He picks up a legal pad, clutching the pen quite tightly, and scrawls out the file record number, tearing it off briskly and letting it flutter across the desk where she plucks it up lightly, reads it, and folds it into a neat square, placing it in her skirt pocket with a light pat.  
  
A pause.  
  
She cups her ear and says quite chirpily, "No 'thank you', Mr Clarkson? How very rude..."  
  
He stares at her as if she were the most despised creature in his entire world, "Thank... you... Miss Somers."  
  
Almost instantly, her cheery disposition vanishes as if a cloud has passed over her face, as she fixes him with an icy cold glare to deliver one final parting shot, "Your guts will be my garters and you will be nailed to the nearest wall if I catch you harassing anyone ever again. You were caught by the wrong one, Harold. The wrong one, entirely. This tart is one who you can't frighten easily."  
  
Turning on her heel, she leaves his office, slamming the door for good measure, blowing out a long exhale.  
  
The floor staff appear quite perplexed, some nervous, one or two are whispering, and she announces, "All is well. You're doing a wonderful job, everyone. Keep up the good work."  
  
Crossing the floor, she half expected Clarkson to pursue her, or for her phone to start ringing with calls from his colleagues defending their vanquished friend, but there was only silence.  
  
True to her word, she finds the documents he had requested, tied with a silk red ribbon, and does not send him an email as he had ordered Lucinda to do, only leaving a passive-aggressive note on a post-it note.  
  
She received not one ounce of gratitude or acknowledgment in the hours or days that followed, nor did she find herself in receipt of threats to her reputation or having her career destroyed.  
  
Sitting in her office, legs casually swung up on the desk, she types on her phone as classical cello music plays from her computer speaker.  
  
Even if she helped just one person today, it would have all been worth it, somehow.

**Author's Note:**

> This one was such a doozy to write, which tends to happen with any writer and their work, but this one in particular hit quite close to home
> 
> Long story short, I drew on many experiences I have had dealing with a difficult senior partner in my former workplace. A few of the comments written about in the story were actually made but not the more controversial, but a great deal of this is grounded in reality.
> 
> It was emotional but also cathartic, as I have left that workplace and will not be going back. I met some nice people there too but I hope to never ever deal with them across a table or in correspondence. That is how traumatic it was.
> 
> In terms of Anthea's character, I have always pictured her as compassionate and protective, particularly of younger interns and civil servants, and given her position, she is experienced at handling difficult men and those who consider themselves above decorum. Truly, the men who act like the Clarkson character and inflict such aggression on people who work beneath them are bullies and should never be allowed to be leaders, but such is the way of the world.
> 
> Just as some final few thoughts, I have never pegged Mycroft as an abusive employer, only a man who tactfully uses intimidation against those who are not in the service or in the know, so I believe Anthea has a decent working relationship with him. While he is the 'Iceman', I believe he would inspire good loyalty in his staff, or else he would not be able to have so much 'legwork' done for him.


End file.
